SuperBolan 66 Termination Point by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE SUIT WAS NEW, a hasty fit, and while the pants were riding up on Bolan at the inseam, he was more concerned about the jacket being loose enough to hide the shoulder rig he wore, with the Beretta 93-R slung beneath his left arm, two spare magazines in pouches underneath the right. The lightweight Kevlar vest had been a late addition, courtesy of Jack Grimaldi, who reminded him—unnecessarily, in fact—that even though Hal Brognola was supposed to tip the Secret Service detail at the White House, things were bound to be a little hectic if his hunch proved right and bullets started flying in the rose garden. Accustomed as he was to wearing body armor in his military days, through drenching rain and jungle heat, the Kevlar didn't cramp his style at all.

if course, it only shielded Bolan from his shoulders to his waist, excluding arms and armpits, which left any number of potential targets for a skilled—or lucky—marksman to score fatal hits.

As he approached the milling crowd, Bolan drew greater comfort from the pin on his lapel that marked him as a Secret Service agent, plus the small earpiece that let him hear commands from those in charge of the security detail. It was entirely possible that he would miss a gunman in the crowd—assuming there were any gunmen present—but another set of eyes might pick him out in time, and thereby give the Executioner a shot.

Bolan cherished no illusions about the nature of his mission here. He was acting on a gut instinct, the least scientific of motives, hunting in territory known primarily from TV clips and hasty sketches Hal Brognola had prepared from memory within the past half hour. He was operating in the midst of an unarmed, civilian crowd that could be counted on to scatter in a panic at the first sign of a weapon. Add the cameras, microphones and some two dozen federal guards who didn't know the Executioner from Adam, and the risks were multiplied a hundredfold. Some of the guards might fire on him if there was trouble, and he had to watch his own rounds in the same event, to spare civilian flesh. Put it together, and it had to be one of the most uncomfortable missions he had ever undertaken, with a snafu quotient that was through the roof. The slightest error would by echoed and compounded in a mob scene, and the job could go to hell like that, before he even felt it slipping out of line.

As if those worries weren't enough, Bolan was also conscious of the fact that time was racing past him, while he dawdled in the White House rose garden. If he was wrong about the feeling in his gut, he would have given Locke and Braun an extra half day to refine whatever scheme they had in mind to top the bungled action with the AGMs. If it didn't involve the Russian president—or more specifically, his public outing at the White House—Bolan's

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